The Family
by Laneblack
Summary: New Chapter finally up! House collides with a van full of Presbyterians and collisions of various kinds continue. Hopefully amusing, romantic, and thought provoking. HouseOC
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Collision**

With only thirty minutes to get to the funeral, I hurried to change from my shit-covered work khakis into my funeral suit. However, I couldn't find my funeral jacket; I suspected it was in my van, but my seventeen-year-old twin nephews were playing soccer on the lawn, effectively blocking my way. Nonetheless, I exited my ranch-style house and was striding purposefully toward the van when a muddy soccer ball nailed me squarely on my right hip.

"Sam, Seb!" I yelled as I tried, unsuccessfully, to brush off the dirt.

The boys bounded up, identically long-limbed and puppyish. "Sorry, Aunt Michaela," Sam apologized while Seb said, "Damn lucky shot. My bad."

I stopped. "Seb, if your mother heard you swear . . ."

He nodded contritely. "You're right. Don't tell her."

I glanced inside the van but no jacket. "I've got to go change again. Are you two going with me?"

They exchanged looks. "Who?" Sam asked his brother.

"Alex. You remember." Seb extended his arm and bent his elbow to mimic the ninety degree curvature of Alex's spine.

"Oh, yeah," Sam responded. "The kid in the hospital bed. Gotcha. Yeah, let's go."

As I rushed back inside, I called, "You two aren't dressed appropriately. It's graveside, so stay in the back. And _don't_ bring the soccer ball."

I searched my closet for something dark and seasonal. I found a navy wrap dress, but I must have last worn it when I was incredibly young and excruciatingly thin. I pulled and tugged until it covered most of my ass.

Through fifteen years as a special education teacher of severely developmentally impaired, multi-disabled, and medically fragile adolescents, I had attended my share of funerals, but the loss of Alex was particularly bittersweet. Truthfully, he had been in pain for the entire sixteen years of his life; he was blind, nonverbal, incontinent, tube fed, and confined to a hospital bed. At the time of his death, he weighed all of fifty-two pounds. In the classroom, I played CDs Sam and Seb made for him to keep him entertained and alert. Because he was so awkwardly contracted, I was the only person who would even attempt to change his diaper. His mother, alone and not the brightest beam of light, tried her best, but I always worried about him whenever school was on a break. At the beginning of the semester this fall, he had failed to return. I was consumed with the fear Alex had died alone.

"In the van," I yelled as I left the house, keeping my legs as close together as I could so the skirt wouldn't part and show the world my business.

The twins scuffled briefly, fighting over the passenger seat, then wrestled their way into the vehicle.

The gathering at the cemetery was small and diverse, including Alex's unemployed mother, a couple of siblings, and the principal of the high school where I taught, Cynthia Winchester. I greeted Cynthia and thanked her for attending while I kept a watchful eye on the boys.

Cynthia pulled me aside. "They're not doing an autopsy, but . . ." she whispered.

I placed my hand on her arm. "I know, Cynthia. But he's at peace now," I reassured her in my most respectable, teacher voice.

She nodded, and we rejoined the few mourners. A minister I didn't recognize bemoaned the tortured existence of a child whom I knew to, on occasion, lift his head when he heard an especial song. Alex's life had not been without value or merit. I wanted to stand up and tell them how he smiled whenever he heard the nurse's voice because it meant he would be fed and how he actually laughed at times when he heard my voice chastising someone else, but my protestations would have been for naught. I kept my own counsel.

"Mrs. Brown," I said to the boy's mother after the service, "I can't tell you how much Alex will be missed. I won't have an excuse to play music during the day without him."

She nodded numbly. "It was just his time. His time. He was meant to go. It was just his time."

"Of course," I mumbled as she continued her near-incoherent litany, and I went off to collect my nephews.

"Where are your parents?" I asked them as they fastened their seatbelts.

"Aunt Michaela," Sam whined, "you know it's Wednesday night. Mom's at bible study. And you have to drop us off for choir practice."

"Hey, how did you manage to cut bible study?" Seb asked me.

"Funerals trump bible study every time. Is your dad at church, too?"

Sam chuckled. "Hell, no. He's making his hospital visitations."

Seb continued his brother's train of thought. "Says he can't take another Wednesday night trapped in a small room with Ruth Spooner, the New Testament Nazi."

"Seb, for heaven's sake!"

"Hey, his words, not mine," he answered defensively.

When I looked at the boys, their brown hair and their pale, luminescent gray eyes reminded me of both my brothers. Their dad, my older brother, Wynn, was the minister at Nassau Street Presbyterian Church. My younger brother, Ty, also had the same hair and eyes. I felt a momentary twinge, loving these boys who weren't my sons while I felt so much sorrow for the student I had lost. My prayer had always been for Alex, when it was his time, to die at school so I would know he had been loved during his last moments of life. As I drove toward the church, I recited the Lord's Prayer silently and threw in the Twenty-third Psalm for good measure.

Dusk was in control and visibility was low. And I was certainly distracted between my own praying and the natural bickering between the boys. However, I never anticipated the accident. I meant to turn right, but the street crept up on me. I had neglected to turn on my blinker and almost drove on past the corner when I cut the van sharply into the perpendicular street. The van rocked with the force of the impact; I felt the crash before I heard the clashing of metals. The steering wheel airbag exploded into my face as the dashboard airbag shoved Sam into his window, causing his forehead to split open. Frightened, I slammed on my brakes while trying to breathe around the inflated face pillow. Seb, staring out his window, shouted, "You've run over a motorcycle!"

"Surely there was a person _on _the motorcycle," Sam sniped while holding a hand to his head. "Did she run over him, too? I can't fucking see."

"There's a man on the street," Seb answered. "His bike looks fucked."

Sam tried to look around the airbag. "Any blood? Shit, I wish this airbag would fucking deflate."

"Are you two okay? Oh, hell, you're both talking. Of course you're fine. Just stay here – don't move," I ordered. I climbed out of my seat and hobbled, unsteadily, around the front of the vehicle. There, on the street, was a mangled motorcycle and a man splayed out on the concrete, but I could find no pools of blood or dismembered limbs. He was beginning to move as I squatted down beside him. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"Of course I'm not okay," he growled back. "You fucking ran over me."

"I'm terribly sorry," I apologized, although he looked at me with the hardest, coldest blue eyes I had ever encountered. He appeared to be in his late forties although the multi-colored leather jacket he sported befitted a much younger man. "I'll call an ambulance."

"Tell them Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. Tell them Dr. House," he ordered. He reached out his hand. I took it with my right hand and pulled him to his feet. "Look under the bike. There should be a cane," he told me.

I reached up under the mangled motorcycle and felt the cane. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He appeared to have an injured right leg.

"Who's in the van?" he asked.

"My nephews."

He limped to the car and opened Sam's door. He looked at Sam's head, then asked him rudimentary questions about the rest of his body and the date and time. He performed the same routine with Seb.

"The boy in the front needs about five stitches; the boy in the back has injured his wrist. May be just a sprain. We'll need an x-ray to make sure. You seem to be favoring your left shoulder. Are you in pain?"

I couldn't even feel my left arm. "What, are you some kind of doctor?"

"Yeah," he muttered, limping over to me. "Did you bang it against the door? Your arm?"

"I don't know."

He hesitated briefly. "You don't even know if you hurt your _own_ arm? You shouldn't be driving. Jesus."

The police swarmed around us as if we were terrorists. While they interviewed the injured man and the boys, I wandered past the debris of both vehicles and sat on the corner. I tried to move my left arm and realized it wasn't cooperating. The ambulance loaded up the boys and screamed away with them. I gave the police the name of the repair shop to have my van towed to, but when they asked the man about his bike, I intervened.

"Listen, there's no question this was my fault. My brother owns a bike shop. He'll do a good job working on it. Have them tow it there, okay?" I said, then I stopped. I was begging this disgruntled victim to let me fix his bike.

He looked at me like I was an idiot as well as dangerous. "What bike shop?" he asked skeptically.

"He mainly deals in vintage and high-end bikes, but he's really good." I nodded to one of the policemen I knew. "Roy, you know Ty. Tell this man he'll take good care of his bike."

Roy smiled at me before turning to the man. "She's right. Her brother's a pro. We'll have it towed there."

The man nodded uneasily. "Do you think one of your policemen could drive us to the hospital?" he asked Roy. "I have some scrapes, and I think this lady may have injured her shoulder."

"Of course," Roy answered him, then he addressed me. "Michaela, do you want me to call Ty or Wynn for you?"

"No, but thanks, Roy. Wynn should be at the hospital making his rounds."

Once the injured man and I were in the back of a police car and heading for the ER, he asked me, "Your husband's making rounds? A doctor?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Not my husband -- my brother. And he's a Presbyterian minister," I answered.

"Just my luck," he muttered under his breath.

"I _am_ sorry. I hope your leg isn't too badly injured," I said.

"Just scraped. You_ do_ have insurance?"

"Of course – I gave the info to Roy. By the way, my name is Michaela McInnis," I offered, although he ignored my hand.

We were deposited at the ER entrance. As we walked in, I could hear Sam and Seb bickering.

"Mom's going to kill us," one was saying while the other one said, "Mrs. Terry won't let us sing in Sunday's contemp service if we miss tonight's practice."

"Oh, Christ, I forgot about that," the first responded.

I walked into their cubicle, and they both silenced their arguing. The injured man limped over and looked, again, at Sam's head.

"Nurse," he bellowed. "Sutures. And get this other boy to x-ray. Now."

A short-haired, squat nurse approached, none too happy. "You don't mind if we x-ray the flail chest in the trauma bay first, do you?"

"There's more than one x-ray machine in this hospital, isn't there?" His voice was as hard as his eyes.

The nurse turned away in disgust. "Robert! Transport!" She looked back over her shoulder and yelled even louder, "Now!"

He stared evilly at her, then turned to me. "Your brother, the minister, is he here? Now?"

I nodded. He grabbed a phone and said, "Have Reverend . . ."

"Wynn McInnis," I said.

"Have Reverend Wynn McInnis summoned to the ER." He hung up the phone.

"Are you a doctor?" I asked again. I felt even more idiotic.

"Yeah. Dr. House."

A nurse brought him a tray of utensils. He set about cleaning Sam's forehead and addressed him, "After this, everyone will be able to tell you two apart – you'll have a tiny scar. Not quite up to Harry Potter standards, unless you want me to extend it?"

"Uh, no," Sam answered nervously.

The ER tech wheeled Seb off to have his wrist x-rayed. I sat down, but Dr. House immediately turned to me. "We need to get you x-rayed, too. Can you move your arm?"

I tried swinging it although I winced with the discomfort. However, my injury was quickly forgotten as a familiar voice echoed through the cavernous emergency room.

"My sons are here. I had a phone call . . . Just tell me where to find them. Sam and Seb McInnis."

Sam looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Mom," he whispered.

"It was inevitable, you know," I whispered back.

Dr. House finished the stitches just as Hilary, a nervously thin woman with hair the color of bleached bones, flew into the cubicle.

"Michaela, what have you done to my sons?" she screeched.

"We had a slight accident," I tried to say, but Dr. House snickered loudly. I cut my eyes at him. "We were heading to the church after the funeral, and I almost missed my turn. Unfortunately, when I _did_ go right, I ran into Dr. House."

Dr. House waved sarcastically at Hilary. "But I _will_ live. Now, _this_ young man just needed a few stitches. I've sent his brother to have his wrist x-rayed, but it's probably just a sprain."

Hilary flew to Sam's bedside, fawning obnoxiously over him. I saw Sam wincing with embarrassment and tried not to say anything, but my mouth opened involuntarily, "He's fine, Hilary. Don't emasculate the boy."

Before Hilary could respond, a nurse carrying an x-ray escorted Seb back into the area. Hilary shifted her mothering to Seb while Dr. House held the x-ray to the light.

"A sprain. You'll need to keep it in a sling for a couple of weeks. No sports," he told the boy.

"Oh, goddamn. I'm reffing for the kid's league – that's not a sport, is it?" he asked hopefully.

"Sebastian Ewan McInnis, I do _not_ believe you're unwise enough to take the Lord's name in vain," Hilary yelled righteously.

"No, sorry, Mom," Seb answered contritely.

As if the cubicle were not crowded already, Wynn entered closely followed by Dr. Wilson.

"Wynn, your sister nearly killed our boys," Hilary complained hysterically while gesturing violently. She looked not unlike a bloodless stork.

I leaned over to Dr. House and asked, "Do you have a tranquilizer gun for pests like her?"

He raised one eyebrow at me and said, "If I had a gun, I'd be tempted to use it on you first, although I _can_ see your point."

"Hilary," Wynn snapped in his ministerial voice, which magically silenced her. "Michaela, are you and the boys all right?"

"Wynn, this is Dr. House. I'm afraid I ran into him," I said.

"_Literally_," Dr. House interjected. "The boys will be fine. Bring the one with stitches back in next week and I'll remove them. Make the boy with the sprained wrist keep it in a sling, and he really shouldn't be refereeing for at least a week." Dr. House looked apologetically at Seb. "You should be able to ref after a week of resting. A solid week, though. Seven days."

Both boys nodded dutifully.

"Hilary," Wynn said, "why don't you take the boys on home. I'm sure choir is finished by now."

"Mrs. Terry won't let us sing on Sunday," Sam whined as Seb said, "Dad, please talk to her so she'll let us sing. We'll get there early on Sunday. Please?"

Wynn nodded at the boys. "I'll talk to her."

"But," Hilary began.

Wynn stared sternly at his wife. "Hilary, _y__ou_ take the boys home. I'll be there after I finish my rounds and stop by the church."

Hilary shepherded the boys from the ER, scolding and sympathizing in the same breath.

Dr. Wilson was examining Dr. House's wounds. "We need to get those scrapes cleaned up, House."

"Hello, again, Dr. Wilson," I said. "I'm sorry to meet you again in unpleasant circumstances."

Dr. House's head riveted like it was on a stick. "You know each other?"

Wynn extended his hand to Dr. House. "I'm Wynn McInnis, the unfortunate older brother of your assailant. Although, having seen quite a few of her accidents and their victims, I'd say you came out pretty well. What were you driving?"

"Dr. Wilson was our sister-in-law's doctor," I said, completely ignoring Wynn's bullshit. "Claire died about five months ago. Breast cancer."

"Yeah, that _would_ be Wilson's patient," Dr. House commented. "The vicious female driver here needs her arm and shoulder x-rayed." He looked at Wynn. "2005 Honda CBR1000RR Repsol, Limited Edition. You ride?"

Wynn walked over to me. "You're hurt? You idiot – why didn't you say something?"

I stuttered, "The boys . . . seemed more important . . . and your wife was screaming so ferociously I forgot my pain."

Wynn laughed. "Yeah, my wife distracted you, and pigs are flying out of my butt. Give me a break." As Dr. Wilson attempted to clean Dr. House's scrapes, Wynn told Dr. House, "Sweet bike. Did she hurt it much?"

"Enough. Ow," Dr. House complained.

"Baby," Dr. Wilson muttered.

Wynn said, "Our brother can repair it for you. He's a master with bikes. A real magician."

Dr. Wilson paused. "He's right, House. Ty McInnis is the guru of midlife crisis motorcycles."

"I had them tow it to Ty's," I said. "Too bad he can't do anything with vans."

"If you weren't such a reckless driver," Dr. House began.

Dr. Wilson interrupted, "Michaela, let me get a nurse to take you to x-ray. No reason for you to sit around in pain watching me bandage House."

As I was wheeled out of the cubicle, Wynn said, "Do you want me to wait, or should I call Brian?"

"I'd rather you wait, Wynn, if you can."

He answered, "I'll be around."

The nurse made me undress and put on a flimsy gown. I worked hard to tie it around my waist, but the neck gaped open a bit. As I was positioned for the x-rays, I was more concerned about keeping my behind covered than my neck. The nurse wheeled me and my x-ray back to the emergency room cubicle. Dr. House, now bandaged, waited alone.

"Did you chase the other boys off?" I asked.

He glanced at me quickly before he stared at the x-ray. "You've dislocated your shoulder." He pulled a straight chair over, positioning it close to the examining table. He waved his hand, indicating he wanted me to sit in it.

"So, what do you do to fix it?" I asked as I moved into the chair.

He stepped in front of me, facing me with his left leg next to my left leg. "I'm going to force the ball of your humerus back into its socket," he said in a measured voice as he lifted his long, left leg and swung it over the back of the chair. He moved my left arm over his knee; he reached out with his right hand, making sure he could grab the examining table.

"Wait," I said a bit urgently. "It looks like you're about to use your knee as some sort of leverage."

He placed both of his hands on the top of my arm, tentatively applying pressure, then he swayed as if checking his balance. "This might hurt for an instant."

"Hurt? Isn't this a hospital? Don't you have drugs here?"

He pulled a medicine bottle out of his pocket, tossing back two of the pills and swallowing them in one gulp. "Thanks for reminding me. Now . . ."

"Wait," I screeched. "What about drugs for _me_?"

"Just recite the books of the bible. I'll be done before you get through the Old Testament. Oh, and do it loudly so I can make sure you don't skip any," he said as he began tightening his hands on my arm and staring fixedly at my shoulder.

I closed my eyes. "Genesis. Exodus. Motherfucker!"

When I opened my tear-filled eyes, he was hopping away, but his left leg was hung on the chair. Two hops and he landed on his ass, his heel caught underneath my useless left arm.

"That was rad," he sad gleefully from the floor. "I saw a picture of that procedure in a textbook back in med school, but my professor said he didn't think it could be done."

"I'm so glad I could help you explore a new technique," I said as I shoved his foot from the chair back.

"You'll have to keep your arm completely at rest, in a sling, for three weeks. After that, you should be ready for physical therapy."

"No," I interrupted.

"_No_? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean," I answered, "I can't go around with my arm in a sling. I change adult diapers."

"Then you'll have to start doing it one-handed."

I shook my head. "You don't understand. My students are mostly in wheelchairs. I have to _lift_ them, change them – they aren't able to help with the transfers."

"Students?" he asked.

"Special ed. High school," I answered.

He struggled up from the floor, leaning heavily on his cane. "You're going to have to get some help with the lifting for awhile." He noticed the gap at the back of my gown and moved the neck a bit. "Proverbs 3:5-6?"

He was reading the tattoo on my left shoulder. I recited, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding."

"In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. King James Version," he finished the passage.

I turned to look at him. "Most people I've known who were trained in the sciences didn't know many bible verses."

"Most Presbyterians I've known didn't have chapters and verses tattooed on them. A new trend?"

"A youthful expression of faith," I answered.

"Any other literature tattooed on you? Something from the Koran, perhaps?"

I smiled slyly. "I was considering one of the Beatitudes in the original Greek: makarioi oi kaqaroi th kardia, oti autoi ton qeon oyontai. However, it's so hard to find a tattoo artist who can be trusted with an accurate representation. You, however, appear to be quite knowledgeable and, I'm sure, very handy with needles. Perhaps you'd like to give it a try."

"Hey, you ran over me with your van, _and_ you destroyed my bike. I'd think twice, if I were you, before I'd let _me_ anywhere near you with a sharp object." He tied the strings to hold the neck of my gown together and limped to the examining table. "I can write you an excuse for work, but it's critical you do no lifting for at least three weeks. Your shoulder is actually more seriously injured than your nephew's wrist." I opened my mouth to protest again, but he raised his hand. "I'm sure you're big, bad, and invincible, but your body _isn't_." He paused to give me a cold glare. "Your fucking quest for sainthood would be seriously derailed if you were unable to use your left arm for the rest of your life. Capiche?"

I nodded resignedly.

"Robert!" he bellowed. When the tech appeared, Dr. House barked, "Get this woman a sling from the supply room. Hurry."

The frightened tech scurried off.

"Now," he said with more animation, "about your brother and his bike shop, Wilson couldn't remember the name of it but said it was out in the Princeton Junction area. Can _you_ give me the name?"

"Ty McInnis is his name, and his shop is Not Your Mother's Bike. I'll call him in the morning and explain to him about your bike. Honda you said? If you think you'd be free tomorrow around three-thirty, we could meet there. I'll introduce you two, and he can give your bike a preliminary examination. Wait, you might want to give me a way to reach you in case, for some reason, that time doesn't work for Ty."

Dr. House tore off a piece of the paper covering the exam table and scribbled on it. "Here," he said, handing me the scrap. "Call me some time before three and let me know. Wilson seemed to have nothing but good things to say about both your brothers and the sister-in-law who died."

I nodded. "Yeah. Ty and Claire had two daughters, one nineteen months and one six-months-old when she was diagnosed. Ty's trying, but raising two baby girls alone would be a bitch for anyone. He's still grieving."

"You sure do swear a lot for a minister's sister."

I looked at him, blinking in surprise. "I'm a minister's sister, not a fucking saint. Yet."

His irascible face almost smiled. "I bet those heathen nephews adore you."

"Of course. Compared to their sanctimonious mother, I'm the best thing that ever happened to them. Plus, I'm _not_ their mother." I tore off another piece of the examining table paper and wrote my contact info on it and handed it to him. "So you can reach me," I said.

"You know, I already have this from your health insurance information."

"I thought you were waiting on it since you hadn't let me change clothes. I was hoping I could get Wynn to take me home."

An uncomfortable look passed over his face. "I'll have him paged while you change. The tech will bring you the sling. You _can_ figure out how to wear it, _can't you?_Let me know tomorrow about a definite time to meet with your brother. And if either of your nephews, or you, have any problems . . ." He left the cubicle then, pulling the curtain around me.

My arm was beginning to stiffen; I had a devil of a time changing out of the flimsy gown and back into the wrap dress. When my brother showed up, he had to tie the bow for me. He looked at me with a cross expression. Robert delivered the sling; between Wynn and me, we managed to get it around me with my arm hanging lifeless in it.

I moaned, "This is going to be a major bitch."

"Michaela, I think we need to contact this doctor and get you some pain medication," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already consulting one of the nurses. Before I could pull myself, one-handed, out of my chair, the nurse was paging Dr. House.

"Just sit back down, Michaela," he ordered. "We're waiting for word from him."

"Oh, hell," I muttered under my breath.

"I heard that," he responded.

I studied him. "You're beginning to sound like your _wife_," I retorted.

After about a twenty minute wait, Dr. House phoned a prescription for Vicodin to my pharmacy. Finally, Wynn and I headed to his car. On the way to the pharmacy, he asked, "Why didn't you want anyone to call Brian?"

"He has to deal with enough emergencies as it is. I just didn't see any sense in adding me to his list of pains in the ass," I answered.

Wynn was watching me from the corners of his eyes. "You're assuming he doesn't already consider you a pain in his ass. And, of course, that he doesn't enjoy _some_ pain in his ass."

I gave him a curious look, but then snickered. "Reverend Wynn, I surely hope your wife doesn't learn you've been swearing," I said in a mock plantation accent.

"Ms. McInnis," he answered, "I surely hope you stop running into things."

I laughed. "It is getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it? I'm a fucking menace. Hilary isn't going to want to let the boys get in a moving vehicle with me ever again."

"Hilary doesn't want to let them get in a moving vehicle with _me_. She's a tough sell, that one. Oh, and that reminds me. The band has a gig next Saturday night."

"What? Oh, hell's bells, Wynn. Seb can't play keyboards, and how will I ever manage the bass? Damn. Who is it for?"

He chuckled. "You're gonna find a way to play your bass when you hear this. The Breast Cancer fundraiser needed a last minute replacement band. Lisa Cuddy remembered Ty and Claire, so she called me begging. Well, _what_ could I say."

"Oh my word, Wynn, _you're_ joking? Holy shit. Does Ty know? _You'll_ play for this one, _won't_ you? _Surely_ it would be seemly for a minister. Oh, we've _got_ to find a way to make it work. We can survive without a bass, but _not_ without the keyboards. You know, in a pinch, _you_ could do it." I was prattling along at a million miles a minute. Wynn just maintained his brilliant smile. Goodness radiated from that smile. Angels ascended straight to heaven on the sheer force of his shining teeth. He could, better than anyone I had ever met, light a room with the mere evidence of his peacefulness. The power of his faith alone was, at times, enough to sustain me.


	2. Chapter 2:  Recruitment

**Chapter Two: Recruitment**

I slept that night with the combined aid of the Vicodin and the sling. I felt like a big, old fool, hanging my arm in a sling over my nightgown, but I had to have some way to relieve the pressure of the arm just hanging on its own. I ended up calling Cynthia early the next morning and explaining the accident and my new limitations, including staying at home drugged stupid that day. When I told her I wouldn't be able to lift for three weeks and would probably need assistance in diaper changing for at least as long, there was an uproar of such magnitude it could be measured on the earthquake scale in New Jersey. What can remind others of the value of one's gifts can also mightily irritate them.

I didn't have to call Ty; he called me.

"Michaela," he crowed, "something tells me you've had another automobile accident. I'd claim to be psychic, but this mangled Honda sitting in my yard is a major hint. Would I be correct?"

"How the hell did you know it was me?" I asked.

"Now, let me see," he mused, drawing it out. "Could be this note from Roy. What does it say? Hmmm. 'Here's a little present from your big sister. Luckily, she didn't hurt the driver, only the bike. Tell her if she'll quit dating that baby doctor and go out with me, I'll keep it off her driver's license.' How about that – Roy has a crush on you."

"Ty, you're making that up."

He laughed. "As many wrecks as you have, the least you could do is go out with old Roy. Poor thing has been pining after you for decades."

I huffed. "Decades? How the hell old do you think I am?"

"How do you expect me to fix this damn bike for free? It's a pretzel."

"Hey," I exclaimed. "You're talking to your free babysitter. Don't piss off the _free_ babysitter."

"Okay – you _do_ have a point. I'll see what I can do. Was anyone badly hurt?"

"Sam has five stitches in his forehead and Seb has a sprained wrist – he can't use his arm for a week," I answered.

Ty whistled. "I bet ol' Hil has you on her shit list. Being you must really suck right now."

I laughed. "You don't know the half of it. I have a dislocated shoulder and can't use my arm for _three_ weeks. Oh, and did you hear about the band's gig?"

His voice gained a tone of enthusiasm. "Yeah. Wynn called this morning _and_ I just got off the phone with Lisa Cuddy. We get to do the show tunes. Of course, without Seb . . ."

"But don't you think Wynn can play well enough . . ." I interrupted.

"You willing to give up 'The Green Green Dress'?" he asked.

"Shit. You know it's my favorite song – such a hot duet."

I could sense him shaking his head. "How can singing a sexy song with your brother be _hot_? We probably need to drop it anyway. Of course, without keyboards we'd have to cut 'Being Alive.' Oh, hell, we've got to have keyboards. No way around it."

"A week and a half to practice," I lamented. "I assume everyone will be available for practice tonight. Hilary can sit for the girls, right?"

He answered, "Wynn volunteered her. Thank god she can't sing a lick."

"Oh, hell. That reminds me. I told the doctor I ran over he could meet us at your place around three-thirty to discuss his bike. Will that work?"

Ty's groan was loud and impatient. "Michaela, you have no vehicle, which means I have no one to pick up the girls at daycare. We need to push this pow-wow back. And don't I need to take you to rent a car? Or were you planning on borrowing a bike?"

"Ty, I am so drugged and so scattered I'm not thinking clearly. Yes, I need you to take me to rent something large enough to accommodate the girls and the twins. When are Wynn and Hilary getting the twins' car repaired?"

"The boys will probably get their car back about the time I get this Honda unscrambled. In other words . . ."

"Don't hold my breath. Yeah. Okay. I'll call Dr. House and tell him – what time? What will work for you?"

"I'll get the girls around three-thirty, then come get you. We should be able to rent you a car and be back here by five. So, want to tell him five-thirty to be cautious?" Ty asked.

"Okay. And I'll text the twins and tell them five-thirty for practice so we can start as soon as Dr. House leaves. Seb can't play, but he can sure as hell sing. I'll leave it to you to tell Wynn."

Ty sighed. "Sure. Expect me to navigate the wicked witch."

"_You_ didn't injure her precious sons. Now hang up so I can call Dr. House."

"Okay. Be de-drugged around three-forty-five," he said.

I staggered around the house, still in my nightgown, texting the boys about the rehearsal, chatting with the school nurse and my substitute at the high school; I was doing everything to delay the phone call to the doctor. Wynn dropped by at lunchtime with a huge dish of marinated, steamed veggies and rosemary focaccia topped with caramelized red onions. He served both our plates and we settled on my sun porch.

"Good drugs?" he asked.

"Wunnderrrful," I answered with a mouth full of vegetables and bread. "You married Hilary because she's such a wonderful cook, didn't you?"

"And she loves you, too."

I snorted rudely, then coughed violently as vinegar and herbs clogged my esophagus.

"See what happens when you think hateful thoughts about someone who truly strives to do what's best?" Wynn snickered.

I choked out, "Yes, yes, I'm divinely chastised. God smote me with an errant bit of lemon zest. Hilary has been vindicated."

"Sarcasm weighs lightly about your injured shoulder."

I gestured wildly with my fork and managed to fling a bit of green pepper into the corner. "What are we going to do without Seb on keyboards and me on bass, although you and Ty can more than make up for _my_ absence."

"Have you arranged to meet Dr. House yet? About his bike?"

I studied Wynn. He seldom asked a pointless question. "I've been putting it off. Ty can't meet with him until five-thirty. Why?"

Wynn smiled slightly as he took a sip of his water. "Aren't we meeting around then to begin practice? Didn't you just text the boys and tell them to be at Ty's at precisely five-thirty?"

"Yes, Obi-wan-kenobi. And the master plan is, uh, what?"

"Dr. House will need a loaner bike."

I waited, but Wynn was more patient. "Okay, so Ty needs to provide him with a loaner? Is that it, Obi?"

"I stopped by Ty's on my way over here. He has a '72 Ducati 750GT he's rebuilt. I think he might be willing to let the good doctor borrow it."

I leaned forward. I knew how attached Ty was to his bikes. "In exchange for _what_?"

Wynn's smile broadened. "Lisa just happened to mention Dr. House is a talented musician."

"Oh hell. He plays the piano." I reclined back in my chair and considered. "He didn't seem the social or charitable type. You think he'll want the bike that badly?"

Wynn nodded. "I also thought you might be able to give him a shove."

"Huh? I ran _over_ him. He hates me. What can I do?"

Wynn's silver-gray eyes sparkled. "You can squeeze into a low-cut top and sing 'Petrified.' I think that will do the trick."

"But," I started, then I stopped. "You _are_ wicked, Reverend McInnis."

"Well, the bike is really a rarity, and Ty's done an excellent job of restoring it."

"If the bike were enough . . ."

"It probably _is_," he interrupted, but the wicked gleam still glistened in his eyes.

"I have a boyfriend, Wynn. You do remember Brian?"

"Of course I remember Brian," Wynn answered. "But you also have outstanding cleavage when you choose to use it. And the quest for a keyboard player seems a legit reason to break out, shall we say, the . . ."

I held up my hand. "Enough. Your point is made."

"Lisa also mentioned he sings."

I stared at Wynn. "So, when we meet this evening, shall I just show up _topless_?"

Wynn maintained his wry smile. "You never were good at subtlety. I'll see you this evening. And the granny gown isn't working for you _at all_."

After Wynn left I toyed with the idea of calling Brian and telling him of my accident, but I knew he would be occupied seeing patients. Instead, I called Dr. House.

"House," he answered tersely.

"This is Michaela McInnis," I said. I waited for some acknowledgement; when I received none, I said, with exasperation, "You remember – the woman who ran over you?"

"How could I forget. Your brother still fixing my bike?"

"Of course. But we can't meet until five-thirty this evening. Is that all right with you?"

I heard the sound of fingers drumming on a desk. "Is he providing me with a bike to use?"

I sighed. "Are your injuries from the accident troubling you, Dr. House?"

"What?"

"I know my shoulder is really stiff, and you sound a tad cranky. Why don't you pop an extra pain pill; you can negotiate with Ty at five-thirty," I said definitively.

I hung up the phone and submerged myself in my closet, searching for revealing tops. By the time Ty and the girls arrived, I was again medicated and wearing my tightest jeans with a clingy, forest green halter top. I carried a sweater to the car with me, but Ty was laughing so hard he couldn't get the car in gear.

"What?" I asked angrily as I buckled my seatbelt.

"Come on," he answered. He was still laughing as he backed out of my driveway. "Wynn and his plans. I can't believe he got you to expose yourself. You are _so_ easy."

I turned my death stare on him. "I _know_ you didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"He's going to make you take that sling off, you know. It blocks the view."

"Ty Andrew McInnis," I scolded in my most severe teacher voice. "That is not the least bit amusing. After I rent a car I'll go home and change."

Ty said, "No. Seriously, Michaela, don't. You know you look good. _That's_ not the reason I was laughing. Wynn is just so damned manipulative. The puppet master."

I looked out the window and ignored him. I felt like a big, old fool. A big, old fool with two morons for brothers. I pawed through my purse, pulled out my Vicodin bottle, and swallowed yet another pill. If I was going to sing and shimmy my way through their recruitment attempt, I deserved the added buzz.

Ty's daughters rode placidly in their car seats; Gracie was just two and Erin was not yet one. Their mother, Claire, had been blonde-haired and blue-eyed, but both girls displayed the reddish brown curls and gray eyes of the McInnises, although Gracie's eyes had recently begun to fade into a pale, bluish-gray. Since her mother's death, Gracie had receded into a shyness no one seemed able to penetrate. She stared out from her enormous, round, pallid eyes, uncommunicative and unreachable.

When we arrived at Ty's house, which was next door to his bike shop, I grabbed Gracie with my right arm to carry her inside while Ty brought Erin. Gracie laid her head on my shoulder, nuzzling my neck.

"Michaela," Ty called. "Chunk her in the playpen in the garage. I'll get them fresh bottles. They can hang with us until Hilary picks them up."

I patted Gracie's bottom, but she felt dry. "Supper?" I asked.

"Hil's feeding them. Since you're injured, she's going to keep them tonight and drop them at daycare in the morning. Are you going to work tomorrow?"

I lowered Gracie into the playpen. "I was planning on trying." As I stood up, I felt the dizzying effects of the Vicodin. I steadied myself with my free hand. "Shit," I muttered.

Ty plopped Erin into the playpen and handed out bottles. "You okay?" he asked.

"Drugged," I answered.

Wynn and the boys entered the crowded garage with their characteristic noisy exuberance. Sam swung each girl in a large, looping arc before grabbing his drumsticks and settling behind his kit. Seb, with his right arm in its sling, was more subdued. He chucked each girl under the chin, then delicately fingered the keyboards with his left hand. He looked at his brother and started flipping switches, turning the sound equipment on. Wynn carried in a large ice chest he shoved inconspicuously into a corner. He pulled out a beer and threw one to Ty, who caught it while walking past.

"Did you bring the bike around?" Wynn quietly asked Ty.

Ty nodded as he opened his beer.

"I can hear you two," I said as I went to the ice chest and got my own beer. "Boys. Soda?"

"Water," they answered in unison.

I carried them each a cold bottle of water.

Seb lifted up his right arm. "We have matching slings."

I smiled. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

He whispered, "Like a motherfucker."

I tried to shake my head in a discouraging way, but the movement made me lightheaded, so I stopped and nodded at my nephew.

Wynn called, "Get Ty's guitar tuned, Seb. 'Petrified.'"

I looked over my shoulder at Wynn, who smiled beatifically back at me. "Don't make me hurt you, Wynn," I sneered.

"Then take off that butt-ugly sweater," he answered. "They're pulling up," he said to Ty. "Okay, gang, let's go. Seb, do what you can with the beginning keys for Michaela."

Ty handed me the mic; I slipped off the sweater and concentrated on the beginning notes of the keyboard and Ty's guitar. I closed my eyes and started singing very softly: "Hate the way you look at me / Like you can tell so much about my life / My life / Assassinate so carelessly / So assured how sweet you twist the knife." I allowed my voice to deepen, to develop an edge, as I continued: "Don't you know I'm just a lot like you / I need all the godly things that you do / When you're alone, at night/ do you run and hide/ Are you strong, inside, are you full of pride/ Or just petrified/ Hate the way you look at me / But I can see the terror in your eyes / Your eyes / You pull the trigger / Your smile is sweet / I don't care if we never meet / That's fine / It's all right."

I glanced to the open door and saw Wynn standing and talking quietly with Dr. Wilson and Dr. House. Wynn moved away from them and slid onto the seat beside Seb. Sam started playing the drums full tilt as Ty leaned into his guitar for the remainder of the song.

"Don't you know I'm just a lot like you / I need all the godly things that you do / When you're alone, at night / do you run and hide/ Are you strong, inside, are you full of pride/ Or just petrified/ When you're alone, at night / do you run and hide/ Are you strong, inside, are you full of pride/ Or just petrified/ Take a look at your life / Take a look in my eyes / Take a look at your life." The musicians stopped for the ending, allowing me to exercise my voice. "Take a look in my eyes / Take a look at your life / Are you petrified?" I ended in a whisper, my head lowered.

The garage was silent for a few moments. Finally, Sam and Seb high-fived each other and emitted adolescent, male-bonding sounds. Dr. Wilson applauded. I squinted, focusing on him. Ty walked towards Dr. House while Wynn grabbed my elbow and pulled me with him in Ty's wake.

"I had forgotten you sang," Dr. Wilson said enthusiastically.

Ty told Dr. House, "I've got a couple of bikes you could borrow. What would you be comfortable riding?"

Dr. House looked at me. "You've got a nice soprano to go with your," his eyes shifted to what cleavage wasn't obscured by the sling, "your nice set of lungs."

I rolled my eyes.

Wynn stepped in front of me with inspired speed, steering Dr. House towards the crappy bikes Ty was going to offer him while they tried to convince him to barter his musical talents for the Ducati. I turned back to the twins.

"'Marry Me a Little'?" I asked.

They squealed eagerly. The Company song was one of their duets. They both had lovely, versatile tenors.

"They have great voices," Dr. Wilson said.

I had forgotten he was still in the garage. "You're not admiring the bikes with the other boys?" I asked.

He shook his head and chuckled. "I want no part of putting House _back_ on a motorcycle. Did I hear Lisa correctly – is your family performing for the cancer fundraiser?"

"Only if Ty and Wynn can persuade Dr. House to man the keyboards for us."

Dr. Wilson's mouth fell wide open. "You, what, you – you seriously think you can get him to play in public?"

My turn to chuckle. "I don't think _I_ could convince him to pee standing up, much less join our crew. However, Wynn believes he can barter a rare bike for Dr. House's musical assistance. And Wynn usually gets what he wants."

"Aunt Michaela," Sam yelled. "Next?"

"'Defying Gravity'?" Seb suggested.

I nodded to the boys. "Nothing like a duet about witches flying away."

Wynn sauntered back into the garage, an inscrutable smile on his face. He started tuning his guitar. Erin pulled herself upright inside the playpen and flung her bottle to the floor, calling plaintively as she spied me. I snatched her up one-handed and threw her against my shoulder. She shoved her thumb into her mouth as she snuggled against my neck. I looked up in time to see Dr. House and Ty strolling back in; Ty gave me a victory nod as he pointed out the keyboards to Dr. House. I just smiled in response.

Dr. House stopped next to me while Ty rummaged through a pile of music. "Does she," and he gestured to Gracie, "always use her bottle that way?"

I turned to stare; Gracie had her bottle propped in a corner and was sucking on it, not using her hands at all. "I hadn't really noticed before."

He leaned over to her and held out his hand, but Gracie just blinked her pale eyes at him. "Does she ever use her hands?" he asked as he stood back up.

"Well, she has," I began, but I was interrupted by the chaotic entrance of Hilary.

"Boys," her shrill voice called out, "e-nun-ci-ate. Don't mumble." She snatched Erin from my good arm, causing the baby to cry out irritably. "Michaela, don't let her go to sleep yet. I have supper waiting for them at home." She gave Dr. House a cross look, so he moved to take the music Ty was holding out. "Sam," Hilary yelled, "get Grace and put her in the car. I'll take Erin."

Sam dropped his drumsticks and grabbed his niece, hurriedly following his mother's directions. As she maneuvered her way through the equipment, I heard her scolding Wynn, "Don't drink too much beer. And no singing _anything_ from Spring Awakening, no matter what the boys say."

I noticed Dr. House observing her as he tinkered with the keyboards.

"Want a beer?" I asked.

He nodded. I offered one to Dr. Wilson, but he muttered something about needing to leave. Wynn came up between us, handing each of us an opened beer.

"Stay, Dr. Wilson. Watching Dr. House playing for Michaela should be worth hanging around for," Wynn said. He motioned to a chair, and Dr. Wilson resignedly took a seat.

I grabbed a beer for Dr. House and delivered it to him.

Sam, crawling back behind his drum kit, whispered loudly, "'The Green Green Dress.'"

I gave Sam an evil glare, but Ty had, apparently, found the music. I watched as Dr. House toyed with the opening bars. "I hope you sing – it's a duet," I said.

He stopped and took a swig of his beer. "'Deep dark velvet hugs your silhouette,'" he sang. "Black silk stockings, you're my Juliet / Soft blond hair baby, baby blue eyes / Cool me down before I jump into your thighs."

Ty and Wynn garnered their guitars and joined in although Dr. House appeared securely in control. He reluctantly let me sing my verse. I moved close to him as we sang the chorus together. His blue eyes were mesmerizing. I sat down beside him on his bench.

"Can I hear you laugh, babe/ Can you make me smile/ I'll forget what's on my mind for awhile," I sang my verse.

Without missing a note, he moved even closer to me and growled, "Can I tie you up love/ If you tell me yes / I'll unbutton every button down your green green dress."

My voice caught in my throat as I forgot to breathe. He began the chorus without me. I climbed off the bench and moved towards Seb, keeping my back to Dr. House as we finished the song. I couldn't dare look at him again.

Seb moved next to Sam and said, "They didn't sing that _at all_ the way Aunt Michaela and Uncle Ty sing it."

"No, ass wipe," Sam answered. "They were way hotter. Wonder if that doctor has ever really tied . . ."

My head snapped around and I silenced them with my withering gaze. Of course, they both giggled naughtily. Before _I_ could say anything, Wynn said, "'Defying Gravity' – let's go, boys."

"Finally," Sam grumbled.

Dr. House continued playing while I slipped inside. Ty's kitchen was a mess – dishes piled all over the place. After over two months of my bitching, he had finally allowed me to hire a cleaning woman for him, but he refused to let her come weekly. As I opened the cabinets looking for hard liquor, I promised myself to call her the next morning and alter whatever arrangement she had with Ty. I would just have her bill me monthly. Finally, I scored a bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer. I took a long drink right from the bottle. Just as I swallowed, Dr. Wilson appeared behind me.

"That was some song you did with House."

I grabbed a towel and tried to wipe some of the vodka off his shirt. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to spit, you scared the shit out of me."

He laughed. "I saw you sneak in here. I just wanted to tell you I think House is going to benefit from playing and singing with your family."

I choked down another mouthful of vodka. "He may benefit, but he's going to give me high blood pressure."

"Speaking of high blood pressure, are you still dating Brian Arrington?"

I held the bottle out to Dr. Wilson, but he shook his head. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Yes, I am _still_ dating Brian. And if you're about to give me a lecture . . ."

He held up his hand. "No, Michaela. I just thought I saw some chemistry between you and House. But, if you're involved . . ."

I turned the bottle up yet again. "Yeah. I'm involved. And that chemistry you thought you saw was just the song. Hell, even Ty can make people wonder about us and incest." Dr. Wilson skittered backwards. I think I was, perhaps, too drugged and too drunk. "We'd better go back outside," I said as I shoved the bottle into the freezer.

"Michaela," he said while grabbing my good arm. "About Brian . . ."

Oh, fuck, I thought. Not another well-meaning moron. "Dr. Wilson, I'll bet you twenty dollars I know what you're about to say." I stared into his warm eyes until he finally gave in and looked away.

"Michaela, House doesn't have a lot of hobbies. Playing and singing here – this is good. Good for him."

I wasn't sure what he was trying to say. "His keyboard playing is a great gift for us – and it doesn't hurt he can sing. I won't be mean to him, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm more concerned you'll think _he's_ mean. Harsh. Unkind," Dr. Wilson stuttered.

I laughed. "I think the boys and I can handle him. He's woefully outnumbered. And I probably know more curse words than he does."

As I stumbled back into the garage, I heard Dr. Wilson murmur, "Curse words aren't gonna help her with House."


	3. Chapter 3: Potluck

**Chapter Three: Potluck**

Eleven o'clock rolled around (Dr. Wilson had finally abandoned us around ten), and Hilary had called Wynn four times demanding the return of the boys. Following her last call, Wynn, who was a tad tipsy, had ordered her on to bed and then turned to the rest of us, calling with un-reverend-like gaiety, "Okay, everyone, let's end this rehearsal with the forbidden song!"

Sam and Seb behaved as if reborn, dancing and hooting with the gleefulness of true adolescents. Ty handed Greg, as we had come to call the doctor, some music, and he ripped into "You're Fucked" from Spring Awakening. What was written as a rock anthem of adolescent frustration with authority figures, degenerated into a raucous, top-of-the-lungs tirade against authority in general, and the loudest voices were, probably, Greg's and mine. By the time Greg banged the last chord, I was draped, sweating and exhausted, across his bench, leaning half in his lap and laughing uncontrollably. Ty passed out final beers to the adults as the twins put away the equipment and Wynn loaded his SUV. I organized the music we had plowed through; Greg asked if he could take some of it home to practice. I looked surreptitiously at Ty, who glanced at Wynn.

Greg, missing nothing, asked, "What?"

Wynn paused and said, hands on his hips, "We meet at the church on Friday nights for a potluck supper and an informal sing-along. We'll do a lot of these songs."

"But not the last one," Seb interrupted amidst laughter from his brother.

"It's a modest gathering. We have some talented musicians in the church along with some excellent singers," I added.

Sam giggled, "And some great cooks."

Wynn scowled at the boys. "You'd be a welcome addition. And I think you'd feel very comfortable."

I noticed the twinkle in Greg's eyes as he asked, "Will there be beer?"

"If you stop by here before and after, there will be," Ty answered.

"Our brother, the enabler," Wynn deadpanned.

I placed my right hand on Greg's forearm, but I jerked it back immediately. "We meet at the church at six. Most of us will be here around four to, well, load up equipment. Your help and talents would certainly be welcomed and appreciated."

"Damn," Ty said. "Michaela sounds sober."

I stood stiffly, my head high. "I am."

"Of course you are," Wynn said. "But _we're_ going to drive you home anyway. Greg, give me a call on my cell tomorrow if you want directions to the church. Of course, you're welcome to just meet us here if you're free that early in the afternoon."

I tried to catch a glimpse of Greg without him spying me, but he appeared to be contemplating my ass. Seb grabbed my good arm with his good arm while Sam grabbed me around my waist and all but lifted me off my feet and carried me to their car. I squealed insanely the entire distance. The possibility of my making it to work the next day looked bleak.

I was sleeping peacefully in my alcoholic haze when the howling vibrations of my alarm clock startled me, unwillingly, into the world of the awake. I reached for it, trying to quiet the stupid thing, and finally grabbed it and threw it. I heard the dull thud as it bounced twice before coming to a silent rest. I dozed back off, only to hear the alarm again five minutes later. I stumbled out of bed, picked up the offending appliance, and carried it to the garbage bin in the garage. It could scream there indefinitely.

On my way back to bed, I stopped in the kitchen for a glass of water. I called Cynthia and told her I was taking another sick day. She actually sounded relieved. I stopped at my den couch and curled up with a heavy afghan, but my brain wouldn't let me go back to sleep. Images of Greg playing keyboards and singing jumbled together with snapshots of Grace and Erin. Greg had mentioned something about Grace, something she was no longer doing – but I couldn't call up the memory. I had almost dozed off when another appliance howled at me.

"_What?_" I said a tad too loudly into the phone.

"Michaela? Are you all right?" Brian's calm voice asked.

I sighed heavily. "Oh, Brian – I've been meaning to call you."

"I would hope so. You ran over Greg House? And let him live?" His laugh tickled my ear. "How's your shoulder?"

"Who told you?"

"ER gossip. Do you need anything? I assume you're taking some time off work."

I wriggled into an upright position on the couch. "Yesterday and today. I'm going back on Monday. I _am_ sorry I didn't call you, Brian."

"I know." He paused for a few seconds. "Do we still have our usual Friday night plans? Church supper and sing along?"

"Yes, of course. Did you hear – Lisa Cuddy's asked us to play at the cancer fundraiser next weekend. We're trying to get in as much practice as we can."

"Great, Michaela. Now you'll _have_ to go with me." He laughed again. "And you'll have to dance with me."

I smiled. "How about if I sing to you?" I flirted.

"You can rehearse that tonight," he replied before saying good-bye.

I had my eyes closed, praying to drift off again, when that infernal phone rang.

"How's the hangover?" Ty asked.

I groaned in response.

"I don't suppose you could grab the girls at daycare this afternoon, could you? I'll take care of loading the equipment and just meet you three at the church," he wheedled.

"My rental is at your place. How. . ."

"Shit," he interrupted. "I'm up to my elbow in engines. I've got to get Fred's new bike finished – he's nagging me constantly and I need the cash. Who's picking up the twins?"

"Ty, how the hell would I know? Call Wynn. Call Hil."

"Listen, sis," he began in his wheedling voice again, "would you call Hil and see what's up with the boys? Maybe she could get the girls or have the boys pick them up. And maybe even bring you over to get your vehicle."

"You're the cowardly bro, Ty. If there had been any doubt, you just cleared it up. And, before you can argue, I'll take care of the girls. I don't know how yet, but I'll figure it out."

Ty sighed in relief. "Thanks, Michaela. I'll see you later."

I struggled into the shower, allowing the steaming water to pound on my throbbing head and stream over my aching body. I needed some Vicodin. And some food. Something to calm my rolling stomach. I dried off hurriedly, slipping into sweat pants and a t-shirt. Somehow I got my wrist rewrapped and back into its sling; I had already developed an overriding hatred for the Velcro contraption. I swallowed one Vicodin and some Tylenol with my water before I started foraging. Just when I had settled on a can of chicken noodle soup, Wynn strolled in.

"Food?" I asked. He was wearing oven mitts and carrying a disposable aluminum pan.

"Yes, m'lady. Hilary's lasagna. Don't suppose . . ."

"Give that to me," I growled as I jerked the dish from his hands. "Hand me two plates."

Wynn grabbed plates from the cabinet and smiled as he watched me lean over the bubbling casserole. I inhaled the luscious aromas of cheese and tomato, luxuriating in the promise of the food. Damn, that woman could cook.

"Here," Wynn said as he handed me a serving spoon. "Quit breathing on it so we can start eating it."

I heaped the food onto the plates and Wynn carried them onto the porch. The first taste was heavenly. Ambrosia. My stomach immediately settled and my head miraculously cleared.

"Wynn, have I ever told you how much I love your wife?" I asked as I wiped cheese from my chin.

He smiled. "Liar."

"Maybe," I conceded, "but I sure love her food. I was starving."

"Starve a cold, feed a hangover – isn't that how the old saying goes?"

I chuckled. "Works for me. And that reminds me – think you could give me a ride to Ty's so I can get my car? I need to pick up the girls at daycare."

"Yeah. Sure. I gather Ty's busy working – has he said anything to you about his financial situation?"

The fork stopped shoveling food into my gaping mouth. I glanced sideways at Wynn. "What's up?"

He shook his head. "Nothing – just a concern. Claire always handled the books – I was wondering how Ty's managing without her."

"You've heard something," I accused.

Wynn sighed. "He hasn't paid daycare. Maybe he just forgot . . ."

I looked at the lasagna remains on my plate. My appetite fled. "I'll take care of it when I pick them up."

"You can't just bail him out, you know."

"Of course I can," I answered. "It's what I do. And I'm damned good at it. How about we go get my rental now?"

Wynn groaned. "Mind if I finish _my_ lunch?"

I sighed impatiently. "Well, hurry. Now I'm worried." I frowned appropriately.

"Michaela, you can't keep bailing out Ty. You're already raising the girls."

I tapped my fingers on the table in an irritating rhythm. "They're my nieces. Someone has to mother them. They miss Claire."

He chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe a nanny?" he suggested.

"What the hell am I?" I raged.

"Yeah. You're right. My mistake," he offered mildly. He stood and gathered our dirty dishes, carrying them into the kitchen. "Let's hit the road, Mama Michaela."

When we arrived at Ty's shop, he was buried beneath twisted metal and swearing incessantly until he realized he had an audience.

"Oh, hey, guys," he stammered. "Don't tell me you're going to buy the twins bikes?" he teased Wynn.

"Yeah, and Hilary's paying," Wynn replied. "No, I brought Michaela to pick up her vehicle."

Ty's brow furrowed. "I figured you'd just wait and come over in time to pack up the equipment."

"No worries. I'll take care of the girls, and Wynn can help you transport. Scout's honor."

Ty and Wynn exchanged curious looks. "Was she ever a scout?" Ty asked.

"Not unless she masqueraded as a boy scout – and I just can't picture her succeeding at _that_," Wynn answered our brother.

"Okay, guys," I interrupted. "I'm getting my rental. The girls and I will see you at the church at six. Anyone have anything smart to say?" I glared at the two of them.

"I've got nothing to say. You?" Wynn hurriedly replied while turning to Ty.

Ty rubbed his greasy hands on a towel. "Me? No, I've got nothing to say. Well, except Erin needs some diapers – clean out."

I growled a profanity under my breath as I stomped next door and reclaimed my borrowed van.

I made a pit stop at the nearest store and purchased diapers and some odd, gourmet potato salad and a platter of deep-fried chicken tenders to take to the church supper. Contributing store-made food made me feel only slightly guilty. Hilary would, if the past were any indicator, bring a couple of casseroles along with a terribly decadent dessert. She apparently channeled all her energies into cooking; she was far too thin to have ever eaten any of her delicacies. When I entered the daycare office and inquired about Ty's bill, I was disheartened to discover he was two months behind. Of course, I paid it and instructed the manager to send future bills to me personally. I could think of no reason for Ty to just forget the bills, and I knew the manager would only allow a limited grace period before she began to hound him. Wynn's fear that things were not well with Ty financially infused my overworked brain. Someone would have to talk to him. I decided, without thought or hesitation, to elect Wynn.

Distractedly, I collected the girls and stopped by my house to change into church attire: khakis and a short-sleeved sweater were appropriate for a Friday evening potluck. My closet held a frightening number of indistinguishable khaki slacks. While I changed, the girls played on my bedroom floor; Erin gripped my bedspread and struggled to pull herself upright while Gracie remained seated, both her hands shoved in her tiny mouth. I hesitated, trying to remember the last time I had seen Gracie pull herself into a standing position. Or walk. She had walked before Claire's death. And she had talked. Only a few words, but she had said "Baba" for bottle and "Da" for daddy. And, for some unfathomable reason, she had called me "Lala." I sat on the floor in front of her and cooed, "Lala?" She just stared vacantly at me, chewing absently on her fingers.

"Okay," I surrendered, "don't talk to me. But I'm not going to give up on you, pretty girl."

I hurriedly, one-handed, changed both their diapers and hauled them, one by one, out to the van. We pulled up at the old, large, brick church twenty minutes before six. Jewel, the nursery director, and her sixteen-year-old helper, Kelly, met me to help unload the girls.

"New van, Ms. McInnis?" Jewel asked conversationally as she unbuckled Gracie and hoisted her up.

As Kelly took Erin from my right arm, I replied, "No. My van's in the shop. I ran into a motorcycle."

"Oh, dear," Kelly lamented. "Are you all right?"

Jewel laughed with the confidence of familiarity. "Ms. McInnis always survives her minor mishaps."

I felt, initially, as if I were being made fun of, but my mood calmed as I saw Gracie and Erin safely carried into the nursery. I slipped into the kitchen through the back door and smiled as I saw Hilary rapidly flitting from stove to counter to refrigerator and back again, excitedly directing the coterie of women standing around chatting. No one paid her any mind. I placed the tub of potato salad and the platter of chicken I had been uneasily balancing with my right hand on the center work island.

"Need any help, Hilary?" I asked.

She stopped in mid stride and paused, blinking several times. "Michaela? Where are the girls?"

I smiled at her obsessive need to know and control everything. "Jewel and Kelly whisked them into the nursery. Are the guys already here?"

She resumed her frantic movements, pulling casseroles from the large, industrial oven and motioning to various women to place them on the tables in the fellowship hall. She glanced up at me. "They're setting up in the other room. And that guy you ran over is even with them." She whispered the last sentence conspiratorially. "Brian's in there, too. He's been asking for you."

I sighed. I picked my supper contributions back up and carried them to the serving table, then I slipped quietly into the music room and watched the guys bickering as they checked out the sound equipment. Brian was standing to the side, obviously of little help, while Greg was tuning a guitar. Ty was on the floor almost completely hidden from view although I could hear him as he adjusted something that failed to please Wynn. Seb was forlornly fingering the piano with his good hand while Sam was sequestered in a corner with Amanda, a sixteen-year-old, redheaded beauty. I walked over to the couple, noticing Amanda's hand on Sam's thigh.

"Amanda," I said in a hushed voice, "the food is almost ready to be served. Go see if Miss Hilary needs any help."

"Yes, Miss Michaela," she demurred as she hurried from the room.

I pinched Sam's earlobe between my right thumb and forefinger and pulled his face down to my lips. "If your mother or Amanda's father had seen you two huddled like that with her hand on your inner thigh, you'd now be now riding in an ambulance to have your penis reconnected to your body. What were you thinking?"

"But, Aunt Michaela, we're in love."

I released his ear and stared into his large, innocent eyes. I was tempted to tell him he was simply in the throes of surging hormones and that, ten years from now, he'd see love in a totally different light, but his naiveté stopped me cold. I patted his cheek with my right palm. "Of course you are, angel. But you don't need to be doing any touching and feeling where your mother can catch you. Understand?"

He nodded.

Brian had spied me and came to join me. He looped his arm around my waist and gave me a gentle squeeze. "How are you, sweetie?"

I smiled into his familiar face. "Good. Supper is served if you want to pry the other guys away long enough to eat."

He nodded in assent. "I'll see what I can do. What did you bring?"

Brian knew I was no cook. I laughed, "Store-bought potato salad and deli chicken tenders. Yummy, huh?"

"Wonder what Hilary brought?" he asked, and we both laughed.

I moved to head back into the fellowship hall. "Round them up, okay?"

As I left the room, I head Brian's gentle voice announcing the beginning of supper. "And you know Hilary's stuff will go first, so let's hustle or we'll be eating Michaela's tub 'o potatoes and Ms. Terry's moldy mac and cheese." Seb pushed by me in his haste to eat, causing me to laugh.

I was busy replenishing the pitchers of water and tea when I turned to see Greg standing very close to me. "You look like you expect to be struck by lightning at any instant," I said.

"Me in a church – it is somewhat risky. What do I do to get food?" he whispered. He smelled of alcohol.

"You must have gone over to Ty's and helped them load up," I guessed. "Just get in line – follow Ty – and try to get Hil's casseroles. She uses the disposable aluminum containers. Ty will show you."

He nodded, then asked, "Where are the little girls – Ty's daughters?"

"The nursery – why?"

Before he could respond, Wynn's ministerial voice called out, "Everyone. Before we sit down to enjoy this lovely buffet, let us bow our heads in prayer. Michaela?"

As the noisy group silenced, I prayed, "Dear Heavenly Father, we come to You in humble supplication. We ask You to forgive us of our sins. We thank You for this plentitude of food we are able to share in Christian fellowship. Please, allow it to nourish and strengthen our bodies so we may serve You more completely. Be with us as we come together in celebration of the many gifts You have given us, and be with those who are unable to join us. In Christ Jesus' name we pray. Amen." The hungry parishioners erupted into laughs and conversation as they hurried to fill their plates. I glanced at Greg through squinted eyes, curious about his reaction, but he was staring openly at me. "What?" I asked.

He merely shook his head and joined the lines of people waiting to dig into the steaming casseroles. Brian walked up and took my hand.

"I made a plate for you. Come eat?" he asked.

His smile was so sincere I had no choice but to agree. I abandoned my post at the beverage table and joined him and Wynn. Sam and Seb were at a table of young people, Sam and Amanda sitting so close to each other their shoulders overlapped. Ty and Greg were still in line and Hilary was flitting around, anxiously overseeing absolutely everything and everyone. I reached across the table and touched Wynn's hand to get his attention. "Should I make a plate for Hilary?" I asked him.

"No use. She wouldn't sit down long enough to eat it. I'll make her eat something when we get home."

Ty sat next to Wynn and, since there were no other empty places, Greg sat beside me. I stared at his plate; he must have taken a spoonful of every dish we had. "Get enough?" I asked sarcastically.

"For the first go round. I'll go back for seconds," he answered while doggedly chewing.

I turned my attention to Brian. By the time the desserts were served, Greg had eaten three plates of food. I expected him to chow down on an entire bundt cake for dessert.

"Michaela," Hilary's shrill voice called. "Would you mind checking on the nursery? See if Jewel and Kelly had a chance to eat?"

I contritely complied. When I entered, I was shocked to see Greg sitting awkwardly in one of the tiny chairs, his flame-embossed cane beside him. He held Gracie on his lap, and he appeared to be talking to her.

"In search of meaningful conversation?" I asked.

He looked up at me sheepishly. "Does she, this one, does she have any words?"

I pulled another tiny chair next to him and sat down. "_That one_ would be Gracie," I pointedly informed him.

"Uh, yeah. So, does this one ever use any words?"

I sighed. "Well, I was thinking about that. Before her mother died, she had begun talking – just a few simple words. But since Claire's death, she hasn't said anything that I can remember. She seems to have regressed. I assume grief . . ."

Greg gave me a withering gaze. "She's too young to experience _grief_. But she doesn't walk, I take it?"

I shook my head. "Not since Claire died – or not that I can remember."

He handed Gracie to Kelly, who had appeared with her bottle. "I would like you, Ty, one of you to bring her in and let me run some tests on her."

I felt the blood grow hot in my cheeks. "You're thinking failure to thrive, aren't you? Well, she has plenty of attention and loving care. You're mistaken. Wrong. And how dare you even suggest such a thing," I yelled.

He used his cane to help lift himself out of the tiny chair. "I never even mentioned failure to thrive, nor did I suggest any neglect. I have a neurologist I would like to look at her, though."

I stood, too. "What do you think is wrong?"

He shook his head. "If I knew what was wrong, would I ask you to bring her to the hospital?"

We walked to the music room to join the others. "When would you want me to bring her?"

"Monday morning – but not too early. And I need to get the family history."

I stopped him in the doorway. His eyes bore into me, and I felt more frightened than I had felt since the announcement of Claire's cancer. "There can't be anything wrong with her – I don't think Ty could handle it."

Quietly, he said, "Just bring her in. It may not be anything serious – who knows."

"Dr. Wilson said something similar about Claire," I opined.

Loretta Terry, the music director, spied me and called shrilly for me to assist her. I moved away from Greg as he took his seat at the piano.

"Michaela, Amanda needs some help with the phrasing – would you sing with her?" Loretta asked.

The youth were working on Jesus Christ Superstar, and Amanda, who had a lovely, clear soprano with limited range and no training, was practicing "I Don't Know How to Love Him." I stood beside her and sang gently, trying to guide her, although my mind was on Greg's words. I worked with disabled youth for a living and had dealt with a variety of odd and rare disorders – how could something be wrong with my niece that I had failed to notice? Guilt flooded my heart and soul. I tried to focus on the lyrics, putting as much prayerfulness into the words as I could.

Several songs later, a group of older parishioners boisterously broke out with "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," and I walked into the sanctuary to sit in silence and think. The cool darkness of the wooden pews reminded me of the years I had spent in these very seats, impatiently waiting to be released from the torture of monotonous sermons. I was now relearning the meaning of torture.

"Are the girls the only children Ty has?" Greg's voice inquired from beside me.

I slowly opened my eyes and turned to look at him. "Yes," I answered impatiently. "He has two daughters." I concentrated for a few minutes before continuing. "Claire and Ty's first child, a son, was stillborn."

"What?" Greg snapped. "They had another child?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"We need to get her to the hospital tomorrow. I'll call my neurologist and have him meet us. I'll let you tell Ty."

I reached out to stop him from leaving. "I don't understand. If something were wrong with Grace, wouldn't Brian have noticed? He _is_ a pediatrician."

"Exactly," Greg said.

When I reentered the music room, Wynn was standing with the mic. "I don't normally do this, but I want to publicly thank my wife, Hilary, for all the effort she puts into these Friday night potlucks. So, I'm going to sing Ben Folds's song, 'The Luckiest,' for her." Greg accompanied Wynn on the piano; Wynn's rich baritone filled the room with the odd love song: "I don't get many things right the first time / In fact, I am told that a lot / Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls / Brought me here / And where was I before the day / That I first saw your lovely face/ Now I see it everyday / And I know / That I am / I am / I am / The luckiest."

I studied Hilary's angular face as she stood in the doorway, her hands wet with dishwater, her smile tight and self-conscious. Slowly, I was able to see her through Wynn's eyes, and the skeletal face prematurely etched with lines of concern softened into the delicate beauty Wynn saw. I envied my sister-in-law in that instant, her with her two healthy sons and her adoring husband. I glanced at Brian as he listened dispassionately to Wynn's outpouring of sentiment, and I walked to the nursery where I enlisted Kelly's help to get the girls into the van. Kelly promised to tell Ty I had the girls; I took them home and slept with them curled up in bed with me, the three of us, blissfully ignorant and peaceful for one last night.


	4. Chapter 4: Genetics

**Chapter Four: Genetics**

I woke the girls up and fed them, securing them in their playpen while I showered. I waited until I was dressed and clearly awake to call Greg.

"House," he answered.

"It's Michaela. Do you still want to see Gracie today – at the hospital?"

"Is Ty coming?" he asked.

"I thought I could bring Gracie and, if anything was really wrong, I could tell Ty then," I timidly suggested.

Greg sighed on the other end of the phone. "When can you have her at the hospital?"

I calculated in my mind. "An hour and a half?"

"Okay. My office. And bring both girls."

I stared at the girls in the playpen, Gracie quiet and oddly self-absorbed while Erin played with a stacking toy. I called Wynn's cell.

"What are the boys doing today?" I immediately asked.

"Sam's refereeing a youth soccer tournament this morning while Seb sulks. We were going to try to get in some practice this evening – I'm assuming you're available."

I inhaled deeply before forming my odd request. "I need a huge favor Wynn, and I need for you to hold off on the questions. Will you help me?"

I heard Hilary in the background ordering Seb to step away from the video games. "What's going on?"

"Just let Ty know I'm keeping the girls for the day. Okay? And try to keep your cell handy – I may need you."

Hilary's voice receded as Wynn obviously moved into a more secluded location. "What are you doing? Talk."

I lowered my head, said a quick prayer for strength, and answered, "I need for you to trust me, Wynn. I promise I'll call you by supper time. Okay?"

"You're keeping something from Ty. Does this have to do with his finances?"

I sighed wearily. "No. Wynn, just be patient. I'll call you later."

I had the girls at the hospital at precisely ten-thirty. I used their double stroller to push them, one-handed, through the maze of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Greg's office was large and glass. I pushed the girls into an apparent conference room and looked for Greg. No one seemed to be around. I sat beside the girls and waited. An institutional coffee machine gurgled and burped; I went to it and poured the pungent liquid into an empty, red mug. I found some sugar and added enough to, in combination with the caffeine, send me into spasms of hyperactivity. I returned to the girls.

Erin was struggling to escape the stroller, so I unbuckled her and watched as she staggered around the room, pointing at objects while chattering incomprehensibly. Grace, meanwhile, appeared content to recline in the stroller and chew on her fingers. I sipped my coffee and contemplated the possibilities for Gracie's apparent regression. I called to her, but she wouldn't meet my gaze. Erin, however, stumbled right to me and grabbed for my mug.

"You must be Mrs. Mc . . ." a male voice said from the door.

I started to stand, but Erin's grasp on the pocket of my jeans halted me in the position of a near crouch. I looked up at the unfamiliar doctor and said, "Michaela. I'm Michaela."

"Uh, yeah. I'm Dr. Foreman," he stuttered while attempting, unsuccessfully, to shake my hand. "And your daughters – Dr. House said you were bringing them in for genetic testing?"

"He did?" I asked in amazement as I lowered myself back into my seat. "Genetics?" I paused. "He thinks she's autistic."

Dr. Foreman nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A tall, thin, young brunette also wearing a lab coat entered the room and bent down to Gracie. "Do we have their medical histories?" she asked Dr. Foreman.

"Uh, no," he answered. "Mrs., uh, Michaela can sign the paperwork allowing us to request their doctors' records, but it is a Saturday. Thirteen," he said to the young woman, "why don't you take the girls and get the blood samples?"

"Wait," I interrupted. "Shouldn't I go with them?"

The young woman had Erin happily fastened back into the stroller and was cooing reassuringly to both girls. "I'll bring them right back – the older is Grace and the younger is Erin, correct?"

I nodded impotently.

"We'll be right back, Michaela," the numbered woman reassured.

I watched in a helpless panic while my precious girls were spirited from the room. I turned to scrutinize Dr. Foreman as I gulped more of the sweetened coffee. "Where's Greg?"

"He's on his way," Dr. Foreman replied. He ferreted through the filing cabinet, pulling out a handful of forms.

"He needs to be here _now_," I muttered. I felt around in my purse for my cell phone. Just as I managed to pull up his number, I noticed a hand taking the coffee mug from between my knees.

"Shit," he sputtered as he wiped the remains of coffee from his face. "Who put so damned much sugar in this?"

I stared at the rumbled visage of Greg, my temper threatening to flare out of control. "That was my coffee, you asshole, and what are you testing the girls for? Autism spectrum disorder?"

"Not definitively detectible by a blood test – but you should know that," he answered as he rinsed out the red mug and refilled it with coffee. "I take it Thirteen is getting their blood now?" he asked Dr. Foreman.

Dr. Foreman nodded and handed a pile of forms to Greg. "Requests for records."

Greg ignored the offered paperwork. "Yeah. We'll worry about that stuff later. It's Saturday."

I stood and moved close to Greg, catching his left wrist in my right hand. "_What_ are you testing them for? What is wrong with Gracie?"

Greg stared down into my terrified eyes. "If I knew what was wrong, we wouldn't be running tests. We may not have an immediate answer. And I want to do an EEG on both of them."

Dr. Foreman nodded and left the conference room while I dogged Greg. "You have a suspicion – tell me."

"Has she ever had seizures?"

I shook my head. "No. Never."

"Was any genetic testing done on Ty's son?"

I shook my head more strenuously. "No. Why would there have been?"

Greg shrugged.

I yelled, "What. Is. It?"

Greg backed away from me. "We have a chapel if you feel the urge to break out in prayer," he offered. I stared back at him, eyes threatening to fill with tears. Finally, he said, "Be patient, Presbyterian," and patted my uninjured shoulder.

I shrugged away from him and stampeded the halls of the hospital before finally stumbling into the chapel. The room was small with only a few pews, but the aura of God was present. I sat in the back and leaned my forehead on the pew in front of me. Closing my eyes, I recited the Apostles' Creed. My breathing had slowed to an almost normal rate when I felt his presence beside me. Without lifting my head, I whispered, "Tell me."

"The blood tests haven't been completed yet. However, I believe she has Rhett's Syndrome," Greg's firm voice intoned.

"Motherfucker," I swore. I shifted on the pew, and he sat beside me. "Go on."

He sighed weightily. "Messed up X chromosome. Boys born with it don't survive since they have only one X, but the girls can survive and function since they have two Xs. Current theory is the chromosome suffers a mutation – not an inherited situation. But, in that case, there would be less than a 1 chance of two children in a family both having Rhett's. I think the momma may have passed on a defective . . ."

"Chromosome," I finished. "So we don't know yet if Erin is safe."

"Her head circumference is normal for her age – a good sign."

I lifted my head from the pew back. "How bad is Rhett's?"

Greg didn't speak for an interminable period. I turned my teacher stare on him, and he dutifully responded, "Very. Loss of speech, motor skills. Seizures. Breathing difficulties. Constipation."

"_Constipation_?" I gasped. "You offer 'constipation' on a par with seizures?"

He shrugged. "Would it be more palatable if I said 'possibility of frequent impactions?'"

"She won't regain _any_ of the skills she's lost?"

"Nope. It isn't grief."

I glared into his querying eyes. "Yeah, I get it. While we were making excuses, she was regressing. We, _I_, fucked up. Yeah."

Greg brought his face to within inches of mine. "The time was a good thing – gave Ty a chance to deal with his wife's death before having to face his daughter's disability. And, had you known sooner, you couldn't have done anything to make the future any easier for him. Or for her."

"Are you speaking of a divine plan?"

He stood up. "I try to offer encouragement and you label me a Christian. I should have known."

"It isn't about you this time. It's about how to tell Ty."

Greg inclined his head. "We won't have the results from the blood work back until tomorrow – why don't you wait and tell him when we have definitive evidence? Or would that go against the 'divine plan?'"

"I _recognize_ sarcasm," I snapped.

His mouth tilted in a near smile. "Somehow, I thought you would. Here's the plan: take the girls and do whatever you usually do with them. When the results from the blood tests are in, I'll be notified. And I promise to notify you. For the rest of this Saturday, do what you would normally do – and do it as normally as you possibly can."

"I just don't want to broadside Ty again. And Claire – is there anyway to determine if her chromosome is the reason?"

"Not without digging up either her body or the son's. Does she have any siblings?

I hesitantly answered, "No. She's an only child. And, no, I don't know if she has any brothers who didn't live."

"There's no reason to upset Ty with an exhumation."

"_Exhumation?_ Hell, no. Leave those bodies alone." I took deep breaths for several minutes while Greg waited before I continued, "Wynn wants to practice this evening – you free?"

"Beer?" he asked.

I nodded. "Ty's house. Garage. Same ole same ole. Wait – are the girls okay to spend the evening with Hilary, or should I stay with them?"

"They should be fine with their other aunt. Nothing, really, has changed since last night."

I looked up into his eyes and felt myself sucked out of my body and into a whirlwind of sorrow and sadness so profound I lost my breath. When I could manage to inhale again, I simply replied, "Everything has changed since last night. The only trouble is, you and I are the only ones who know it."

For the second time that day I felt his long, graceful fingers squeezing my good shoulder. "We can keep that secret, Presbyterian. And we need your soprano tonight. You _will _wear that v-necked, halter top . . ."

"Greg, shut up. Tell me where to get the girls and I'll see you at Ty's house around six. We'll probably order pizza. Okay?"

He gestured toward the hallway and nodded his acceptance of the evening's musical plans. I found the girls with Thirteen, both happily slurping the bottles I had left them although Thirteen was holding Gracie's for her. "Thanks," I offered shyly.

"No problem. Sweet girls. We'll let House know as soon as we have the test results. But Erin, she shows no signs . . ."

"One of Claire and Ty's children _has_ to be healthy. _Has to be_," I chanted as I pushed the double stroller outside and to my van.

Once I had the girls at the house, and had fed and changed and put them down for a nap, I called Wynn."

"What the hell is going on, Michaela?" he demanded.

"Rehearsal tonight at six. I'll order the pizza – you bring the beer. And would Hil let me drop off the girls on the way to Ty's? It's for a good cause."

Wynn banged the phone on the wall a couple of times, causing my sugar-and-caffeine-induced anxiety to reach new plateaus of insanity. "You know you have me worried sick. Tell me what's going on, for goodness' sake."

"Wynn, there's nothing to tell right now. Maybe tomorrow. However, in the meantime, let's worry about next Saturday night's performance. Will we have a full group tonight?"

"Yeah, yeah. Michaela, as a minister, I'm trained in counseling. If I can be of any help . . ."

I quietly but sincerely answered, "I know. I believe in your strength and faith. But for this minute, this evening, let me carry this alone. There will be plenty of time in the future to share."

"You don't have to make a martyr of yourself, sis."

"Trust me, Wynn, I won't. I promise."

He changed gears. "Okay, we'll hit the garage by six and have everything ready. Just don't drink so much you can't make Sunday School in the morning. Ruth Spooner has joined your class."

"Oh, shit," I muttered. I heard Wynn's laughter in the background.

"Her request, Michaela. But I wish you the best of luck."

"I hate you," I muttered without any conviction at all. "See you later."

Hilary answered the door herself, aromas of baking apples and cinnamon escaping to remind me I hadn't eaten all day. "Do you mind keeping them tonight?" I asked my sister-in-law.

"No. Sam and Seb will help me get them to church in the morning. But, Michaela, try not to keep Wynn and the boys out too late tonight – Wynn _does_ have a sermon to be delivered in the morning."

"But I . . ." I started to object. Of course, I realized Hilary blamed me for any less-than-saint-like behavior involving Wynn or the boys. Nevertheless, if Gracie were to have Rhett's, Hilary's help would be critical. "But of course I'll do my best," I revised my response. "I've had a long day and need an early night as well."

Hilary had placed each girl into her matching highchair while she scurried in her fast-motion way to assemble their meals. "Michaela, what is your assessment of this Dr. House? Is he a suitable addition to the group?"

"Of course," I automatically answered. "Excellent on the keys, and he has a nice voice, as well. However, I don't get the feeling he wants to make this a permanent arrangement."

Her lined face relaxed briefly. "Good. Okay, then. That's fine."

"Anything else I can do to help, Hil, before I head on over to Ty's?"

She shooed me off with rapid, flipping hand movements. "We're good. Go on. Sooner you start, the sooner my boys will be home."

I allowed myself to be sent to my van. I wondered what Hilary's reaction to Gracie's disability would be. Her heart was always in the right place; however, there was an eerie undercurrent of condescension emanating from her – her sons were perfect. Smart, athletic, and well-behaved, they were the banner she waved to prove her own worth. God loved her because He had given her such a charmed family. How would she react to the frailties, the faults, in Ty's family? I took a deep breath as I started the van and prayed for God's guidance for all of us in the days ahead.

We started in the garage with the standards, including "Being Alive" from Company , sung by Wynn. We traveled through the various routine numbers with little incidence until we hit a slow point, and I suggested a song.

"I know we haven't done it in awhile, but could Ty please do, 'I Don't Believe in Heroes Anymore?'" I asked as I passed out fresh beers.

Ty looked at me. "Any reason why, Michaela?"

I honestly replied, "It's one of my favorite show tunes, and it showcases your voice. Please, Ty – for me?"

He studied the sling that still supported my arm and assented. Greg shuffled through his music until he found the tune. Ty began his reluctant tenor, deepening as he threw himself into the mood and the lyrics, ending with: "God was on our side against them all / I wonder why the heroes we clamor for / are men from past romance / the heroes we gather for / perform a puppet's dance / We are fools who can't see the fools who fooled us all before / Except when I read books and dream / I don't believe in heroes anymore."

I was sitting beside Greg on his stool, and he threw his analyzing gaze on me; my fear-filled eyes evinced no change from the beginning of the rehearsal, so he lowered his head. I did my version of "I Don't Know How to Love Him," but, since we were only signed on as a relief band for the main attraction at the fundraiser, it was easy to become complaisant with what we knew well. During one well-deserved break, I turned to Greg and said with all of the solemnity of a monk, "Ty doesn't need to know there's any implication of Claire in this. It's not something he could process or deal with soberly."

Greg focused his blue eyes on me. "You want to play god for your brother?"

I took a deep breath and answered, "In this one case, yes, I do. Will you let me?"

Greg never answered me. I was tired and Greg showed his fatigue, so I suggested, around ten, we close with "The Bitch of Living" from Spring Awakening, but the boys were not satisfied. No sooner had we finished performing one of the forbidden songs than Seb suggested "Another Night in Bangkok" from Chess, with Seb doing his best on my bass guitar. The rehearsal broke up around eleven. As I was helping clean up the pizza remains and empty beer bottles, Greg came up to me. I waited a few seconds, but he held in his words.

"Okay. What do you want to know?" I questioned.

"For one, where is Brian?" he asked.

I hesitated too long. "Brian doesn't play or sing. He will be at church tomorrow. Will you?"

Finally, Greg responded, "No, Presbyterian, I will be at the hospital checking on the big one's blood tests. But keep your cell on vibrate – I _will_ call you." He turned and walked off to converse with Ty and Wynn while I continued cleaning up food debris. Sam, with a bandage still scarring his forehead, came up to me and pleaded for a private confab, but I put him off due to his father's lingering presence. As I watched him recede and return to storing sound equipment, I felt as if I had let him down – had somehow missed my opportunity. I felt heavy with responsibility by the time I crawled behind the wheel of my loaner van.

Sunday School and the church service passed without moment despite having Ruth Spooner in my Singles Group. In the past, she was known for indicting every single member of the class, crucifying those who were single as the result of divorce and vilifying those who were there because of past bad relationships. I was welcoming of all, not the least bit judgmental, and I rubbed Ruth the wrong way. However, after giving her five minutes to vent, we successfully silenced her and continued with our lesson on Acts. Nevertheless, I caught her flashing hateful expressions toward me in the choir balcony. I smiled peacefully at her as we exited the choir seating.

Ty took the girls home with him, so I changed into my comfortable sweats and curled on my den sofa with Bret Lott's A Song I Knew by Heart, a modern retelling of the Book of Ruth, and awaited a call from Greg. By four o'clock, my patience had evaporated, so I called Greg.

He answered impatiently, "Tell me where you live – I want to tell you this in person."

"What? It can't possibly be any worse than what we have been anticipating," I lamented.

"Address," he sullenly demanded.

I gave him directions and started brewing coffee. His face, when I opened the door, was as dour as usual. He followed me out to the sun porch where I had the coffee ready. He accepted his cup while I loaded mine with sugar. We were silent, both of us uneasy about the information to be revealed. Just as I had seated myself and was ready to begin the conversation, my phone rang: Wynn. I excused myself so I could get rid of him out of Greg's earshot. When I returned to the porch, my eyes were met with a shocking spectacle.

Sam, clad in nothing but boxers, was gesturing to Greg while Greg was suppressing, with only partial success, a grin. "What is going on?" I demanded.

"What is Dr. House doing here?" Sam retorted.

"Dude, you're the one without clothes – you're the one who needs to start talking." I glanced at Greg; he had covered the lower half of his face with his hand.

"Look, Aunt Michaela, I need your help," Sam began while continuing his manic gestures. "I was at Amanda's, and, well, her father came in."

I plopped into my chair. "Amanda's dad caught you two having sex?"

Sam shuffled and looked at the floor. "Well, almost."

I could feel Greg's shoulders shaking as he laughed. "What the fuck do you mean almost? And I hope you were using a condom."

"I was trying to, but the appearance of her father pretty much made the condom unnecessary."

Greg had to shift positions as he attempted to hide his amusement.

"Was Amanda agreeable to this? You didn't coerce her, did you?"

"Of course not, Aunt Michaela. I love her. She loves me. But I need your help – if her dad calls Mom, then I'm going to be under house arrest for the rest of my life," the boy pleaded.

"Sam, there's no earthly way I can keep your mother from learning about this. And, besides, what makes you think you get to have sex in a bed, for goodness sakes? You're a teenager – you're _supposed_ to grapple in cars while the police harass you mercilessly. What were you thinking?"

Greg quietly interjected, "I doubt he was thinking at all."

I shifted my hateful, teacher stare to Greg. When I turned back to Sam, I said, "Go find some clothes. I suggest you talk to your father, and soon before Richard gets in touch with your parents – or your mother."

Sam turned away and headed for the spare bedroom, muttering obscenities the entire time. I buried my head in my hands, trying desperately not to cry.

Greg hesitantly touched my right hand, then rapidly withdrew his long fingers. "He is a boy. A teenaged boy. Surely you expected him to be sexually active."

I raised my head just enough to give him my eat-shit glare, completely aware my eyes were red with withheld tears. "I'm aware of a lot of things, Greg. I'm aware he's not a hit-and-run guy – he's in love, and he had the good sense to at least _try_ to use a condom. And I'm also aware that while he believes he's in love, nothing I can say or do can convince him the feelings he has now will in no way mirror the feelings he will have in ten years. Even if I _wanted_ to try to explain the difference to him, he would no longer have any faith in me because I would be disrespecting his feelings. Right now, at his age and with his recent traumatic encounter, all he is aware of or believes in are his feelings. I can't even begin to try to dissuade him from his devotion to Amanda."

"Amanda?" Greg asked. "The Superstar singer Friday night – the shaky soprano?"

I nodded.

"Hmmmm. Nice body, but her voice is far from being in Sam's league."

"Yeah, Greg, that's how adolescent boys pick their sex partners – by their vocal compatibilities."

Greg smirked, "I, too, recognize sarcasm."

"I thought you would," I deadpanned.

"You going to tell on the boy?" Greg asked with more concern than I would have expected.

"Amanda's dad is a church elder; he will tell, at the very least, Wynn. Normally, Sunday afternoons are family time for Wynn, but I guess I'm about to infringe on that custom. Shit. Sometimes being the good one really blows."

Greg passed me his own cell phone. "Get it over with."

Hilary, naturally, answered. Wynn was so concerned about the situation with Ty, he took the call in private. I told him what I could in the most positive light I could formulate; Wynn was quiet and calm, thinking of how to handle things. Finally, I suggested he call Richard and arrange a meeting between the two fathers and the adolescents involved – perhaps at a neutral location. Wynn agreed. I was instructed to keep Sam overnight and drop him at school the next morning. Wynn would pick him up from school and take him to the church for a conference. I agreed it was the best that could be offered.

Greg kept his eyes on me throughout the negotiations. "What are you thinking?" I demanded. "Think I'm being too easy on Sam?"

"No. Quite the contrary. In the midst of some seriously bad news about your niece, you take the time to help out your nephew. If you weren't so damned religious and wound way too tight, you might be almost admirable."

"That sarcasm thing is getting a tad old," I answered.

"Go talk to Sam. Give him a minor reprieve. When he's settled down and absorbed in video games or phone calls or practicing on your bass, we'll talk about the girls."

I propped my chin on my fists and let a few tears dribble down my cheeks. "You're more patient than you let on."

"Well," he smirked, "I was counting on beer in the fridge, or a good scotch in the cupboard, and some decent channels on the tv."

I stood to pursue Sam and said, as I walked towards the guest room, "Make yourself at home. For now."


End file.
